


The Obstructed View (A Game of Hearts pt. 1)

by zmethos



Series: A Game of Hearts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 22:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13490952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zmethos/pseuds/zmethos
Summary: When John is abducted by Moriarty, Sherlock concludes that having to worry about John is a detriment to his work.





	The Obstructed View (A Game of Hearts pt. 1)

**Author's Note:**

> This series was originally written after Series [Season] One of the BBC program. Therefore it does not reflect later series/seasons and goes off in a very different direction from the show. For example, these stories assume Sarah Sawyer as a supporting character who John is still trying to date.
> 
> Though the earlier stories in this series (A Game of Hearts) don't begin with Sherlock and John in a romantic relationship, things progress steadily in that direction, which is why I've labeled them M/M.

“I WOULDN’T GO so far as to say my brother has no heart at all,” Mycroft Holmes mused. “But I would suggest, Doctor, that you might be the occupant of that particular space.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are Sherlock’s link to humanity. He does not otherwise smoothly traffic with the average human.”

“You’re clearly the diplomat of the family,” John said, half to himself. He had no desire to appear rude, given that Mycroft was sparing some time for him.

Mycroft heard all the same and smiled. “Yes, well, the closest thing, at any rate. As close as any Holmes gets to . . . that.”

“‘That’ what?”

“Diplomacy.”

“I see,” said John, though he didn’t really see at all.

“Just keep with him, Doctor,” said Mycroft. “I know Sherlock can be trying, but if you can stick it out for a bit—”

“What, you’ll pay me?” It was meant to be a joke, but Mycroft pegged him with a speculative gleam, and John waved his hands in dismissal. “No! I don’t want anything for it; it was a joke!”

Mycroft regarded him for a long moment. “Then what do you get for your trouble?” he inquired, and John realized he was honestly mystified at how John and his brother got on.

“More trouble, mostly,” John told him. “But it’s a sight better than none at all.”

***

THE BOLT THAT struck through him at that moment froze him. For a terrifying moment his mind was blank, was empty, something he was not at all used to. “Think,” he hissed to himself under his breath, and he was disconcerted to find the hand holding the iPhone was shaking.

Like a man clearing his desk, Sherlock swept all emotion to the outer edges of his being and forced himself to look at the image objectively and impartially. John was not dead, not yet, and wouldn’t be if he, Sherlock, took this as he would any other case: each piece of evidence and each fact neatly ordered into a framework so that he could solve the puzzle.

The camera was positioned too close to John to afford a good view of the rest of the room, so Sherlock thought back a step. John had been going to the grocer, would have walked, must have been grabbed between the flat and either put in a car or taken somewhere nearby . . .

Sherlock glanced out the window. The streets were busy; forcing someone into a car without causing a scene would be difficult. But getting him to walk any distance without causing a scene would be equally tricky. A hit on the head—too obvious. They would either have to have threatened John in a way that would have convinced him to go with them, or else subdued him in some other way.

He turned his attention back to the phone screen. John was conscious, not even groggy, but not making much effort to look around either. Was it that John was already familiar with the place? Or was someone with him, someone Sherlock couldn’t see?

Sherlock’s question was answered almost as he formed it, as someone appeared at John’s right elbow and took a seat—on what? A table? By the way John glanced up and then rolled his eyes, it was clear he knew this person at least well enough to be mostly irritated by him.

And then the camera was readjusted (by whom? there was at least one other person in the room, or some kind of remote feature on the camera), and Sherlock could see both John and the person with him.

“Moriarty.”

Of course.

“Please, Mummy, can I keep him?” Moriarty asked with a wide smile. “Tell me you didn’t think the exact same thing when you first saw him, Sherlock. He’s adorable.” Moriarty ruffled John’s hair, earning him a glare from the doctor. “He even smells good!

“Now we both know I don’t normally stoop to these levels, it’s just too unoriginal, too dirty. But you make it so easy. It’s the hairline crack in your smooth facade. He” and he gestured to John, who was studiously staring off in the opposite direction, “makes you vulnerable.”

John began to laugh then, a low chuckle. “Do you really believe that?” he asked Moriarty.

At the flat, Sherlock was shaking his head. “No, no, don’t talk to him, don’t engage him,” he told John, though of course his flatmate couldn’t hear.

“Sherlock doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t care about anyone. It’s all collateral damage to him.”

Moriarty’s eyebrows shot up. “And yet here you are.”

John shrugged as best he could, given that his arms were tied behind him. “Nothing else to do tonight.”

“Sherlock!” He jumped at the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s voice calling up the staircase. “Is John back yet?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock called back.

“Well, what could be keeping him?” Her voice was closer now; she was coming up. “He was going to bring me—oh, what’ve you got there?” When Sherlock hastily pocketed the phone, she gave him a knowing look. “It’s that sort of thing, is it? Well honestly, I can’t imagine there’s much of a line at the grocer’s at this hour. Maybe he ran into a friend, went for a drink. I only hope he did that before getting the eggs. Don’t want them to sit out. Here, I brought up your post.”

Sherlock ran a hand over his eyes, ignoring the proffered envelopes.

“Are you all right? You don’t look very well,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Don’t I?” Sherlock rose from the sofa. “I think I’d benefit from some fresh air.”

“See if you can’t find John,” Mrs. Hudson instructed. “Or at least my eggs.”

***

THREE BLOCKS TO the grocery, two alleys. John was in this area, Sherlock was sure of it. Even if whoever had accosted John—wouldn’t have been Moriarty, no, but a henchman—had used a gun, it would have been risky to walk far. Too many opportunities to be noticed. And after all, Moriarty wanted Sherlock to find them, didn’t he? That was part of the game.

Sherlock pulled the iPhone from his pocket, cursing Mrs. Hudson’s timing. Moriarty had gone, and John was now actively looking around, taking in his surroundings. The camera had not been repositioned, so Sherlock could see more of the room than before. A large room but largely unfurnished; John in the chair and the side table next to him, a large fireplace some two or more meters behind him. Wooden floors showing at the edges of the room but a large rug covered most of the floor that could be seen.

Most of the buildings near where they lived had been cut into individual flats. Not many would have such a large room, particularly one with a security camera. A business then, or more likely yet, some kind of rented space . . .

A quick search on the phone unearthed just what Sherlock was looking for, a failed bed-and-brekkie, now shuttered, that had featured a large drawing room that was also rented for functions. Online reviews claimed that the food had been terrible, seemingly the cause of the enterprise’s demise. The property was now on the market, which made it very available to the likes of Moriarty for a one-night-only affair. And it was just down the block.

The building had security cameras outside; Sherlock ignored them. He knew it meant at least one, probably more, of Moriarty’s underlings was watching. Moriarty almost certainly was as well, though whether he was still on the premises was questionable. Sherlock was irritated that he’d missed the conclusion of Moriarty’s gloating—along with whatever else John might have said to him.

The door was unlocked, of course. Inside Sherlock was faced with worn red carpet running a few feet ahead and then turning to run up a flight of stairs. He glanced to the right, where traditionally there might be a drawing room or lounge, but while the registration desk was still there, the room beyond it was clearly not the room he had seen on the video. Upward then.

Sherlock resisted the urge to call to John, even though Moriarty and his men surely knew he was there. He took the stairs swiftly but tried to remain relatively quiet. At the half landing there was an open doorway, the only room on the floor, and through it he saw the fireplace.

John must have sensed him—or someone, at any rate—coming, because he had turned to look over his shoulder towards the door. “Sherlock, stop!”

Sherlock froze in the doorway, eyes darting, and tilted his head as if to listen.

“The rug,” John explained. “Moriarty set it before he left.”

Immediately Sherlock was flat on the floor, peering at the rug. He pulled a pen from his pocket and gingerly lifted an edge. “Mmm.”

“Look, just call Lestrade and his people to come get me so you can go get—” John made a gesture with his head that Sherlock interpreted to indicate Moriarty. But Sherlock only frowned and asked, “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” And then John groaned with realization. “Oh, right. This bit is the fun part, the rug and all.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“And God forbid you catch Moriarty because then you’d have no one to play with.”

“You’re singularly acidic tonight,” said Sherlock as he rose and studied the room. About four to six inches of bare floor between the wall and the rug. Sparse furnishings. And John was near the far side of the room, where the security camera was positioned.

“Yes, well, maybe it’s because I haven’t had dinner. Some people like to eat, preferably regularly.”

“That reminds me, Mrs. Hudson wants her eggs.”

John sighed and sat back in the chair. “Please just call Lestrade. For backup.”

“What did he use?” asked Sherlock.

“So . . . No Lestrade then. Okay. What did who use?”

“Moriarty. For the rug.”

“I don’t know, some kind of fob.”

Sherlock’s eyes continued to scan the room. “And did he say what would happen? If anyone stepped on the rug?”

“No.”

“He’s buying time,” Sherlock murmured. “It won’t do anything.” He made as if to step forward but paused when John protested.

“Wait! What if it does?”

“It won’t.”

“But there’s something under the rug? You saw something?”

“It’s all show, John. He’s distracting me from something else, something bigger.”

“So why don’t you go find out what it is, and in the meantime Lestrade and the police can come—”

Sherlock shook his head with impatience. “John, you’re making this take longer than it should. Let me—” And he stepped onto the rug.

The room went dark. Turning back toward the open door, Sherlock saw that the landing, staircase and everything beyond was also unlit.

“Interesting,” said Sherlock.

“I’m glad you think so,” John replied.

“The only reason for this would be for them to be able to see us while we can’t see—”

And that was when the gun went off.

***

SHERLOCK WAITED A moment for the pain to blossom, but nothing happened. “John?” he finally asked, his voice seeming unnaturally loud and strangely strangled in the dark room. “John!”

“From what I can see—and you’ve figured out by now that I can see,” came the familiar voice, “you, Sherlock, may be the world’s finest detective, but you’re a very poor protector.”

Moriarty was somewhere behind him, near the fireplace by the sound of it, but Sherlock ignored him, instead reaching to his left. John’s chair had been just a meter or so away . . .

“John knew it too, though, didn’t he?” Moriarty went on. “That’s why he was asking for Lestrade, wasn’t it? So, Sherlock, you can give John what he wants and call for help while you go back to what you do best, or else hope you’re fast enough to save him yourself.”

Sherlock had found the chair, could feel John’s body sickeningly slack against the bonds as he fumbled at the knot he couldn’t see. “Damn it, John, say something,” he growled through clenched teeth.

“You’re angry, aren’t you?” Moriarty continued in his infuriating way. “You want to catch me; I know it. I’m right here! Come on! I’ve taken something of value from you. I’ve made it personal now.”

The knot finally pulled loose. Sherlock moved to catch John as he slid from the chair and laid him on the rug.

“You can’t afford to form attachments, Sherlock. It’s very bad for business.”

Sherlock remembered his phone and pulled it out, using the light from its screen to scan John’s prone form. His flatmate’s head was undamaged, his shoulders, arms, but there on the right side blood was staining John’s jumper. Kidney, then? Intestines? Had the bullet passed through, or was it still lodged in John’s person? Even as he pulled the sweater up to look, Sherlock realized he could not answer any of these questions effectively under the circumstances, nor was he likely to be able to stop the bleeding given the location of the wound. He would have to call for paramedics and in the meantime treat John for shock.

Hissing with frustration, he dialed for help.

And from somewhere farther away than before, Moriarty was laughing.

***

JOHN OPENED HIS eyes slowly, sleepily, and spotted a familiar figure near the window. “You were wrong about the rug.”

“Not at all,” said Sherlock without turning. Outside the buildings were beginning to be more distinct as the coming sun sent up its first fingers of light.

John tried sitting up a bit, but the bandages and stitches at his side, along with the discomfort, forced him back down again. “But the rug caused the lights to go out.”

“Moriarty caused the lights to go out. He watched from the security room and used a wireless fob to turn them off when he saw me step onto the rug.”

“Pretty elaborate, if you ask me.”

“He’s up to something,” Sherlock murmured. “This was a distraction; he’s trying to redirect my attention.”

“Doesn’t sound like him, though, does it?” asked John.

Sherlock finally turned. “How do you mean?”

“Well, usually he’s trying to get your attention.”

Sarah came swinging in then, not bothering to disguise her disapproval of Sherlock’s presence when she saw him. “This is your fault, I take it.”

Sherlock’s brows went up and he looked to John. “I couldn’t not call her,” John said, which won him Sarah’s frown.

For a moment John thought he could see Sherlock weighing and discarding options before he said, “I’d best get Mrs. Hudson her eggs, else we might never hear the end of it.”

After he’d departed, Sarah rounded on John. “What happened?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I just—”

“It’s not fine, John! You’re in hospital because of him!”

“It’s not like it’s his fault there’s a madman on the loose,” John told her.

“Yes, but you don’t need to be involved,” said Sarah. She flopped into a chair next to the hospital bed. “This isn’t schoolboy hijinks. This is dangerous. Hanging around him could get you killed.”

“I’ve done plenty in my life that could get me killed, Sarah. Anyway, he’s just my flatmate.”

“He doesn’t have to be, though, does he?” she asked.

“What, move? I only just moved in!”

There was a long moment of them staring one another down before Sarah bounced back up from the chair. “Just a thought,” she said. “Visiting hours are ending, so . . .”

“Yeah,” John sighed, picking up the remote for the telly that hung on the wall.

“Get some rest,” Sarah told him. She gave him a swift kiss on the forehead and departed.

***

THE POWER HAD been restored by the time Sherlock returned. He ignored the police stationed at the entrance and went up to the half landing, not knowing yet what he was looking for, but certain there would be something. He wasn’t disappointed. Stuck in the mantel was a penknife, a lovely little thing made of carved ivory and old by the looks of it. The knife held a note.

NEXT TIME I’LL KILL HIM UNLESS

Sherlock pulled the knife from the mantel and his iPhone chimed a text message almost immediately. He pocketed the knife and note for later examination and took out his phone.

WHAT IS HE TO YOU?  
1:00

The clock began counting down.

_Colleague_

WRONG ANSWER

WHAT IS HE TO YOU?  
0:30

_Friend_

WRONG ANSWER

Sherlock resisted the urge to toss the phone into the empty fireplace and waited for the next prompt. But it didn’t come. Instead a video popped open on the screen. John asleep in his hospital bed.

Forcing down the sudden lump in his throat, Sherlock closed his eyes to think. There were no cameras in the hospital rooms, so this time Moriarty had brought his own. He was there, then, at that moment. It would take Sherlock at least twenty minutes to get back to the hospital, time John didn’t have. Calling Lestrade, or even the hospital itself, wouldn’t be any faster. He would have to play this out.

But what answer was Moriarty looking for?

Sherlock opened his eyes. Moriarty was beside the bed, outfitted in scrubs. He held a finger to his lips in an indication for quiet. Then he held up a scalpel.

ONE MORE CHANCE  
WHAT IS HE TO YOU?  
0:10

Not allowing himself to think too hard about it, Sherlock typed his answer and hit Send, then held his breath and waited.

The video screen went black.

For a long moment there was nothing, and then:

VERY GOOD

Sherlock’s breath came out in a rush as he contemplated the dynamics of his response, evidently the answer Moriarty had wanted. But why? Sherlock looked again at what he had written, wondering what instinct in him had chosen the words.

_He is my heart_

***

“YOUR EGGS, MRS. Hudson,” Sherlock called as he set them on the sideboard next to the stairs. He took them two at a time, aiming for a shower and a change of clothes before returning to the hospital.

“You’ve been out all night!” the landlady called after him. “Did you find John?”

“Yes!”

“Well, where is he?”

“Hospital!”

Mrs. Hudson waited until Sherlock was on his way out again to ask, “As a doctor or a patient?”

“Patient. I’m off to check on him,” said Sherlock as he threw his scarf over his neck.

“Good. He can’t do any better than to have you there. And in the meantime, I’ll bake him some lemon squares.” She swept off, humming to herself. Sherlock wasted a split second marveling that she hadn’t bothered to ask what had happened to John, then escaped before she could ask him to pick up confectioner’s sugar.

***

“YOU KNOW WHO this guy is, don’t you?” Lestrade accused. It was his third visit to the flat in two days.

Sherlock hadn’t bothered to get up from where he’d been lying on the sofa. “I’ve told you, you won’t find him.”

“He’s committed a serious crime—”

“More than one, I should think,” inserted Sherlock.

In a fit of frustration, Lestrade slapped a nearby table. “Tell me you aren’t planning some kind of . . .”

“Some kind of what, Inspector?”

“Vigilante . . .” Lestrade searched for the word he wanted. “Revenge or something.”

“Why should I?” But his voice sounded hollow, even to himself. Lestrade didn’t know the half of it; Sherlock hadn’t told the police about the knife, the note, Moriarty’s visit to John’s hospital room.

“Maybe because he kidnapped and shot your friend. Damn lucky he didn’t die.”

“It’s not a matter of luck,” Sherlock told him. “It’s a matter of design.”

“Oh? Well if that was his warning shot, I wonder what his open fire will look like.”

Sherlock sat up then. “Are we done here, Inspector?”

But Lestrade hesitated in the doorway. “How is he?”

“Bored. But he’s to be released tomorrow.”

Lestrade gave a curt nod. “Good.” Then added with an arched eyebrow, “Maybe he’ll be more helpful in finding this lunatic.” Then he was gone.

***

AS THINGS STOOD, Sherlock had not heard from Moriarty since the strange text exchange via the phone. Between visits to the hospital, Sherlock stayed home and made notes to himself, looking at every possible facet, every point on the timeline of events, as he tried to piece together the bigger picture. What, exactly, was Moriarty driving at and why?

That John was his Achilles’ heel was a given. But Moriarty hadn’t eliminated John because to do so would be to lose leverage. Sherlock felt stupid for not seeing as much before; Moriarty might threaten John, but he would never actually kill him.

Satisfied on that score, Sherlock had to wonder what the point of the text exchange had been. To get Sherlock to admit his weakness? Childish, perhaps, but clearly Moriarty was not above schoolyard pranks, though his brand swung toward the dangerous and deadly.

But there was more to it, there had to be. Moriarty had been looking for something specific in Sherlock’s response. “Colleague” and even “friend” had not satisfied him; Moriarty had wanted an affirmation of emotional commitment. Why?

Though he knew how to use emotions when he needed something from someone else, Sherlock wasn’t given to examining his own. Moriarty would know this, of course. And now he intended to exploit it somehow . . .

“Sherlock.”

When he didn’t cease to scrape at his violin, Sarah sighed, strode in and took a seat across from him. “Stop that. We need to talk.”

“John hasn’t agreed to move out then, I take it?”

“He told you?”

“He didn’t have to.”

Sarah gave a small growl and flung herself back in the chair. “Of course he didn’t. You know everything.”

But Sherlock didn’t respond, just waited.

“You care for him? As a person?” Sarah insisted. “Why would you want to put him in danger?”

“I think John can make these decisions for himself,” Sherlock replied.

“Not if you don’t give him a choice,” Sarah countered. “Whatever hold you have over him, if you told him to go, he would. If you didn’t ask him along on these cases or whatever they are—” She threw open her hands. “Then maybe he wouldn’t be getting shot and winding up in hospital.”

“You’d rather he stay home and watch telly.”

“Yes, I would.”

“But I find him useful,” said Sherlock.

“As what? Target practice?”

Sherlock sat back, appearing to honestly consider her suggestion.

“So you won’t stop him,” Sarah finally concluded.

“No.”

She rose then. “If he dies, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Yes, well—” Sherlock put the violin back under his chin. “I’ll try not to let that worry me.”

***

JOHN TOOK THE stairs slowly. They’d let him go earlier than they should have, thank God, after he’d made enough of a nuisance of himself that they’d presented him with waivers and shown him the door. But it did mean that he’d need to be careful for a while.

“Sherlock?” He stuck his head into the flat and saw his flatmate standing very still near one of the windows. But he wasn’t facing out; his right side was to the window so that he was turned toward the fireplace.

“Sherlock,” John said again, but Sherlock still didn’t move, nor did he answer. “Well, good to be back, anyway.” He waited. “Hello? What, am I interrupting something? One of your experiments?”

John started over but hesitated when Sherlock closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “Everything all right?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and John saw his gaze drift toward the windowsill. A black rectangle sat there—Sherlock’s iPhone, John realized suddenly and stepped forward for a look. By the time he saw red dot of the gun’s laser sight fixed on the right side of Sherlock’s neck, it was too late.

John’s own phone chimed in his pocket. His eyes locked on Sherlock’s, he pulled it out, then looked to the text message that was waiting.

STEP CLOSER

Frowning, John took another step toward his flatmate.

CLOSER

John was right in front of Sherlock now, the toes of his shoes just a centimeter from Sherlock’s own. He could look down and see Sherlock’s phone, but the screen had dimmed, so whatever information the detective had been given was still a mystery.

DON’T MOVE

“All right,” John muttered at it.

READ THIS ALOUD  
EXACTLY  
SAY ANYTHING ELSE  
I’LL HAVE HIM SHOT

John swallowed hard, skimmed the text that followed the instructions, and felt his cheeks grow hot. He glanced up at Sherlock and reasoned with himself. It wasn’t so bad, right? Sherlock would know John was being forced to say these things. Besides, Sherlock was the type to let sentiment roll off him like water off a duck. Impervious. Right.  
So with a deep breath, John began. “You may have a brilliant mind, Sherlock, but you’re still made of flesh and blood, and there are some things even logic cannot rule.”  
John looked again to his flatmate to gauge how he was taking this, but Sherlock had closed his eyes again. Trying not to choke on the words, John pressed on.

“Don’t you crave . . .” John hesitated then, wondering briefly if Sherlock might rather risk being shot than listen to this.

*** 

SARAH POKED HER head around the door, which had been left ajar. The room was getting dark and there were no lights on, so it took her a moment to spot John and Sherlock, standing near the window, close enough to kiss. Her greeting died on her lips. John had his back to her, and Sherlock had his eyes closed. John’s voice was low, almost too low to hear, but she caught some of what he was saying.

“Don’t you crave the heat of another body at night? The feeling of . . .” John thought he might gag. “Hands in your hair?”

Afraid that Sherlock might open his eyes and see her, Sarah stepped away and hurried as quietly as she could back down the stairs, only to be stopped by the redoubtable Mrs. Hudson.

“Leaving?”

“It . . . Didn’t seem like a good time for a visit,” Sarah told her.

“Are they at it already?” Mrs. Hudson sighed and shook her head. “You think they’d give it a rest, what with John only just home.”

Sarah’s eyes popped. “They do this often?”

“Oh, once a week at least.” Mrs. Hudson’s eyes traveled to the ceiling. “This is a quiet one, all things considered. But maybe they just haven’t really got going yet. Some of the banging—” She shook her head again. “It’s mostly Sherlock,” she confided. “John is passionate enough in his own way, but he’s quieter about it.”

Sarah’s jaw dropped.

“If you want to wait, I have fresh tea,” Mrs. Hudson went on. “It won’t be more than an hour, I shouldn’t think. Unless John storms off in the middle of it because Sherlock won’t do things the way he likes. Lemon square?”

***

“SO TELL ME, Sherlock,” John was reading more rapidly now, feeling relieved to have come to the last line, “what happens to a person when their heart st—”  
Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

“AH, THERE WE are,” Mrs. Hudson said with satisfaction when they heard the thud. Upstairs, John was shouting, “Ow, ow, ow!” And a split second later came the sound of glass breaking.

Mrs. Hudson lifted an eyebrow. “Sounds a bit serious. Maybe we should check on them.”

***

“YOU’RE HEAVIER THAN you look,” John was telling Sherlock when Mrs. Hudson and Sarah opened the door.

“Well, if you’d let go of me . . .”

“If you stand up, he’ll shoot you.”

“He was aiming for you. Mrs. Hudson, if you would please be sure to stay back from the windows?”

Mrs. Hudson clucked over the broken glass and said she was going down for the hoover. Sarah, on the other hand, got down on all fours and crawled over.

“Sarah!” exclaimed John. Sherlock pulled free and reached up for the cord to the window blind.

She only glared. “When were you going to tell me, John?”

“Tell you what? Ow,” he said again, looking to his flatmate. “I think you may have pulled my stitches.”

“About him,” Sarah said, jerking her head in Sherlock’s direction.

John looked between Sherlock and Sarah. “But you know about him.”

Sarah sat back and folded her arms expectantly.

“Er . . . Sarah, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is—”

Sherlock had reached the final window and was pulling down the last of the blinds. “She thinks we’re involved in a romantic relationship, John.”

“Why would she think that?” John looked back to Sarah. “You don’t, do you?”

“From what Mrs. Hudson was telling me—”

“You can’t believe anything she says,” protested John, easing himself up from the floor. “She watches too much telly. All those melodramas.”

Sarah considered as she stood. “But what about what just happened?”

“The shooting?”

“Before that. I came up and saw—What is he doing?” Sherlock was at the far wall, running his fingers over the busy wallpaper.

“Looking for the bullet, I think,” said John.

Sarah ran her hands over her face. “I should go,” she said.

“You don’t have to,” John told her. “I mean, I think the worst is over, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“For the moment,” the detective murmured. “Ah!” And he pulled a penknife from his pocket and began to dig into the wall with it.

“That’s a nice knife. Where’d you get it?” John asked him.

“Found it.” But John wasn’t sure whether Sherlock meant the knife or the bullet.

Mrs. Hudson appeared with the hoover. “Is it safe now?” she asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied.

“I’m definitely leaving,” said Sarah.

“It’s probably best,” Sherlock agreed. “Even if we don’t call the police, somebody will have.”

“But she’s a witness,” John pointed out.

“She’ll get her turn to tell them what she saw, I’m sure.” His level gaze was enough to make Sarah leave without another word.

***

“I CAN’T HEAR when you play that thing,” Lestrade grumbled.

Sherlock scraped the bow across the strings, resulting in a particularly discordant note.

Lestrade sighed and turned to John. “Can’t you do anything with him?” But John only shrugged.

“This was the same guy who shot you before?” the inspector pressed. “And then practically the minute you get home, he tries it again?”

John’s eyes flicked to Sherlock, who was studiously ignoring the conversation, nor had he volunteered anything more than the information Lestrade had just repeated back, although he’d given Lestrade the bullet. “That about sums it up, I suppose.”

“Right.” Lestrade drew the word out in a way that suggested he thought John was hiding something. “Any idea why this fellow might want to kill you?”

John’s eyes went back to Sherlock, and Lestrade chuckled. “What, jealous lover?”

All at once Sherlock sat bolt upright and set the violin aside. “That’s it!”

“Just a joke,” Lestrade told him.

“God, how did I miss it?” Sherlock stood and looked around as if seeing things for the first time. “I’ve been trying to put a logical framework on this, but there isn’t any.”

John and Lestrade exchanged glances.

“He’s jealous,” Sherlock explained.

“Of what?” asked John.

“It’s either you or me,” mused Sherlock. He shook his head. “Crimes of passion are perpetrated by emotion, not logic; deductive reasoning doesn’t work. Or at best it only works to a point . . .” His voice trailed.

“Well his hatred of you is certainly irrational,” John offered.

“Not really,” said Holmes. “It’s perfectly logical for him to see me as a rival. But his hatred of you, John, is perverse.”

“So this madman wants to kill the doctor because he’s jealous of him?” Lestrade asked.

“That’s one possibility, that he’s jealous of John’s proximity to me. The flip side of that would be that it’s John he’s wanted all along, in which case it becomes an ‘if I can’t have him, no one can’ scenario.” Sherlock turned a speculative gaze on his flatmate. “The difficulty comes in knowing which is his true motivation. Though the solution comes to the same: John has to leave.”

“For how long?” demanded John.

“Indefinitely.”

“I don’t see how his being gone makes him any safer,” said Lestrade. “If this guy already hates him, will John leaving change his mind?”

Sherlock counted off on two fingers, “He hasn’t gone after Sarah or Harry—”

“Harry?” Lestrade asked.

“My sister,” John explained.

“—the only other significant relationship in John’s life being his attachment to me—”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” mumbled John, “or that I’d say ‘attachment’ . . .”

“—so it stands to reason that his tie to me is what puts him in jeopardy. Therefore he must sever that tie.”

Lestrade made a short, sharp sound that might have been a laugh. “John here could go half way around the world and not sever his attachment.” When he saw the way both Sherlock and John were staring at him, he cleared his throat and added, “I’m just saying, distance may not be your problem.”

“It doesn’t matter because I’m not leaving,” John declared, folding his arms.

Sherlock appeared prepared to argue, but Lestrade held up a staying hand. “I’ll let you two sort that out. But if you do end up moving, Doctor, be sure to let me know where I can find you. In the meantime, I’ll be stepping up patrols in this area, I think.” They could hear him muttering to himself as he departed.

John turned back to Sherlock, ready to state his case, but the detective was walking toward the door. “Where are you going?”

“If you’re spoiling for an argument, you won’t get one from me,” Sherlock told him.

John opened his mouth to respond, but Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway with a tray, forcing Sherlock to step back. “Tea and lemon squares, boys. Put a nice end to the day.” She set the tray down. “Bring it down when you’re done, John, because we both know Sherlock won’t, and if he starts stacking papers on it, we might never find it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said weakly as she left. All at once he felt exhausted. His side hurt—though the stitches had held, thank God—and the emotional toll had been heavy. Yet he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep any time soon. He poured himself some tea, took a seat and looked to Sherlock, who was staring at the tray as if it were some foreign object. “Want any?”

“No.” And then, as an afterthought, “thank you.”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. About . . . You know.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Sherlock said absently. “It could have been lyrics from pop songs.”

John choked on his tea. Sputtering as he reached for a napkin, he said, “Sometimes I don’t know when you’re joking.”

But Sherlock’s mind was clearly elsewhere. “I’m forgetting something.”

“That’s not like you,” said John. He paused for a moment then added, “Admit it, though. You were angry. About what I was saying, what I was forced to say.”

Sherlock finally looked at him. “What makes you say that?”

“I may not be a brilliant detective, but I am still a doctor. Besides the way you were clenching your jaw, I could see your pulse rate go up.” He tapped his own throat as an indication.

Sherlock pulled in a deep breath then said, “God, where have I been?” He turned to a nearby table that was stacked with odds and ends and began tearing it apart.

John stood. “What are you doing?”

“He can hear us, John. How else would he have known you were saying what you were supposed to say?” He stopped in the middle of the room, his eyes traveling across the walls. “This has been a disaster from the start. I can’t think clearly when I have to worry about you.”

John drew back as if Sherlock had slapped him. “I never asked you to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“As evidenced by your getting kidnapped off the street and shot.”

“You can’t hold me accountable for your obsessive would-be rivals. You’re the one who’s dragged me along for this and that. You even told me I was useful. Once.”

“And you’ve never once said no.” An idea appeared to strike Sherlock and he started for his workbench.

“And you wouldn’t have taken no for an answer! It’s always ‘come’ and ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ with you!” John watched Sherlock pull out the ivory-handled penknife and began to form a question, but Sherlock stopped him with a finger to his lips. Using a small screwdriver, Sherlock removed the screws holding the ivory to the metal sandwiched within and took a small black square from between the two.

“Whatever past circumstances were, the present situation is: I can’t finish this with you here,” Sherlock said, reaching for a small but heavy metal hammer.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to be in your way, now would I?” John growled.

Sherlock smashed the listening device and let out a sigh. “I’ve booked you a room at the Park Plaza. Unless you’d rather stay with Sarah?”

“I’m not entirely sure she’s speaking to me,” said John. “I can’t imagine what Mrs. Hudson must have said to her.”

“She’s probably safer at a distance,” Sherlock told him.

“Mrs. Hudson? I agree.”

“I meant Sarah.”

“Oh. Right. But I do need to talk to her, anyway. There was too much going on before. I think if I could just explain—” But Sherlock had lost interest and begun tinkering with something else on his table. “Never mind,” John went on, resigned. “I forgot you don’t have feelings like most human beings.”

“There is a distinct difference between not having feelings and not acting on them. If more people chose their heads over their hearts, the world would function much more smoothly.”

“A world full of Sherlocks. God forbid. I can barely survive the one.” Sherlock appeared entirely absorbed in something small and shiny that he was holding up to the light with tweezers. “By the way, how did you know he was going to shoot?”

When Sherlock continued to work without answering, John assumed he hadn’t heard the question. In fact, he was relatively sure his flatmate had forgotten him completely until Sherlock said, “You should go pack some things for the night, don’t you think?”

“You don’t really expect me to leave?”

“I do.”

“Just like that?”

“I have to sort this out, and I can’t with you drawing fire on a daily basis. I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock added as he set the shiny object back on the table and plucked another up with the tweezers. “It’s my fault you’re involved in this, so now I’m going to get you uninvolved.”

“At least you’re sorry,” John said bitterly. “I suppose that should make me feel better.”

But then Sherlock looked him in the eyes and said the two words that convinced John to go pack an overnight bag: “Please, John.”

***

MORIARTY FOUND SHERLOCK lying on his back in the middle of the floor, an arm thrown over his eyes. “So you’ve moved him to the Park Plaza. More witnesses will make it more difficult to get to him, but not impossible.”

“And yet you are here and not there,” said Sherlock without moving.

Moriarty stepped over him and took a seat in an armchair. “I’ve come to see what you’re willing to offer in exchange.”

“What do you want?”

“Oh, I’ve quite the wish list.”

“Any of it, then. All of it. Whatever.”

But Moriarty only scowled. “No bartering? No negotiation? You’re taking the fun out of things, Sherlock.”

“Then shoot me now and be done with it.” Sherlock sat up then. “But you won’t. Because you want to play. And I’m telling you now that John is not a pawn on our chess board.”

Moriarty chuckled and clapped his hands in slow applause. “Bravo. And yet you aren’t prepared to kill me just yet either. Else you’d have met me at the door with a gun.” He rose. “Fair enough, Sherlock. I’ll leave your heart intact. I’m leaving the country tonight anyway. You’ll think fondly of me, won’t you? And if you think it over long enough, you may see I’ve done you a service.”

Sherlock lay down again. “One for which I’ll be sure to repay you tenfold when you return.”

Moriarty stepped around him this time and laughed. “We’ll have fun then, won’t we? Admit it. You’re already looking forward to it.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

***

“SO YOU’RE MOVING out,” Sarah summarized. She had agreed to meet John for coffee that morning at a café not far from the hotel.

“We didn’t really talk about duration,” John told her.

“But if he’s breaking up with you—”

“It’s not a break up. I mean, you know, it’s not like we’re a couple, right?”

Sarah’s brow furrowed. “That seems exactly what it’s like.” She leaned forward over the little table. “You like him, right?”

John shrugged. “Sure, I guess. I mean, he’s utterly infuriating. But he’s the most remarkable person I’ve ever met. Really. I don’t think there’s anyone like him.” His mind flicked to Moriarty. “Well, not in a good way, anyway.”

“High praise.”

“Look, when I met Sherlock, my life was . . . It was pretty bad. Dull. He makes things interesting.”

“And if he did break up with you?”

“He can’t break up with me if we’re not a couple, Sarah.”

“Then what would you call it?” she asked.

John was at a loss. “Does it matter?”

“Kind of, yeah. How does he feel about you?”

“Who knows? I can’t see that he feels anything about anyone. He says he’s married to his work. Although,” John added almost hopefully, “he did say he was worried about me.”

“And from him that’s a compliment?”

“Or the least scathing of his criticisms, depending on how you—” John’s phone chimed in his jacket pocket. “Hang on.” He glanced at the text message that was waiting and shook his head. “Fast work.”

“What’s that?” asked Sarah, and John held the phone up so she could read it.

_Moriarty apprehended. Come home._

***

“WHAT HAPPENED IN here?” John asked when he saw the mess on the floor. Books, papers and other sundry were stacked haphazardly, allowing only a small path through the flat, aside from a larger floor space between the armchairs.

“Herding,” said Sherlock, who sat at his computer.

John glanced around, surreptitiously checking for sheep or other livestock. He wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to have brought any in, though Mrs. Hudson would certainly have made a fuss if he had.

“There were a limited number of places I could allow Moriarty to step, stand or sit,” Sherlock explained while still scrolling through his e-mail.

“He was here? This is where he was caught?”

“Yes and no, in that order.”

“Well are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Not much to tell. He came, we talked, he left—with three of my transmitters stuck to his person. After that it was elementary.”

John sighed and glanced around for a clear space in which to sit. “That’s a relief then.”

“I would think for you it certainly must be.”

“But not for you,” Watson concluded from that statement. “Why?”

“Mm,” was Sherlock’s only reply before asking, “How is Sarah?”

“You know I saw her because I said I needed to,” deduced John.

“No, I know you saw her because you smell like coffee, and you only go to cafés when you’re meeting Sarah.”

“Oh. Well, she’s good.” He searched for something to say to keep the conversation interesting, but came up dry. Until he remembered his unanswered question from the night before. “How did you know Moriarty was going to shoot when he did?” 

“The laser sight moved from me to you; the only reason he would have to do that would be if he were redirecting his aim, and the only reason to redirect his aim would be if he were going to pull the trigger.”

John opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Lestrade’s abrupt entrance. The inspector halted just inside the door when he saw the mess. “Thought you’d like to know that your friend is being extradited to Germany. Apparently had some nasty business there.”

“Well you’ve as good as let him go then, haven’t you?” Sherlock asked.

“You must be joking!” Lestrade told him, affronted. “You should have seen the escort the German government sent to get him!”

“Impressive, I’m sure,” murmured Sherlock, “but counterfeit nonetheless.”

“So he’s loose?” asked John.

“You don’t seem very worried about it,” said Lestrade.

Sherlock turned away from the computer, his eyes sliding toward John. “I worry about very little. Anything else is a waste of my invaluable skill.”

“Then I’ll try not to take up any more of your _valuable_ time,” said Lestrade. He paused on his way out to add, “You better hope you’re wrong. Just this once.”

“Not likely,” Sherlock muttered after him, then stood. “You all right, John?”

John’s side ached, his head spun with too much information, and he hadn’t had enough sleep, but he felt he was giving an honest answer when he replied, “Never better.”

“I’m off then,” Sherlock told him, going for his coat. “If you’d like to come . . .”

John stood as quickly as his stitches would allow. “Thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
